


Wives and Sweethearts

by mtothedestiel



Series: Saltwater [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Boats and Ships, Bonfires, Carousing, Consensual Infidelity, Crimes & Criminals, Dancing, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake Science, Family, Fatherhood, Found Family, High King Eliot, Historical Fantasy, Intrigue, Kings & Queens, Loyalty, M/M, Makeup Sex, No Homophobia, Pirates, Politics, Queen Margo, Romance, Sailing, Sea Shanties, Secrets, Switching, Swordfighting, Tenderness, True Love, Trust, doctor!quentin, shoreleave, swashbuckling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22705090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: The High King of the Western Seas decides to sail home for a holiday. The duties of the crown follow him, along with the duties to his heart. It's a pirate's life.
Relationships: Fen & Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Saltwater [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612543
Comments: 72
Kudos: 298





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all readers old and new! This is the second "book" in what is a planned three part series on the adventures of Pirate King Eliot and his ship's doctor, Quentin Coldwater! You definitely will have needed to read part one of this series "Saltwater" in order for this sequel to make sense. Other than that, I hope you'll enjoy joining Quentin in exploring some previously unseen layers of the notorious High King.

_“To wives and to sweethearts. ...May they never meet.”_

_-Captain Jack Aubrey, Master and Commander: the Far Side of the World_

* * *

  
  


“You must be able to imagine, Captain, why I’m irritated.” 

His beloved _Whitespire_ creaks beneath Eliot’s feet with the gentle rocking of the sea. The sun is setting, the golden hour light leaking through his state room windows and glinting off Poppy Kline’s fiery red hair.

“Yes, my king,” she replies, not looking nearly properly cowed in his opinion given the chaos she’d sown that day. “But the _treasure—”_

“You forced me to intervene in another sovereign’s territory,” Eliot continues, pacing in front of the foolhardy captain of the _Dracarys_ . Poppy the Dragon Maid, always coming up with a new headache for him to deal with. “Our terms with the _Floating Mountain_ are precarious enough without the _Whitespire_ firing on one of the Lady Agate’s vassals.”

Eliot pauses in his pacing, and perhaps something in his expression finally convinces his vassal that it would behoove her to at least _pretend_ at contrition. 

“I put my crew at risk,” he says, voice low and serious, “And there were casualties.”

Poppy wrings the brim of her ostentatious feathered hat in her hand. 

“...fatal casualties, sir?” 

Just for a moment, Eliot indulges in resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. He hardly finds a thrill in intimidating his vassals but his men’s lives were not to be taken lightly. When he speaks it’s in the cool tones of the High King.

“Is that a hair you care to split, Captain?” 

Poppy lets out a deeply satisfying squeak. “No, my king! Of course not.”

Eliot’s reply is interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Eliot sighs, and turns away from his brash fool of a vassal. 

“Come in, Q.” 

Quentin steps into the cabin drying his hands on a clean rag, his jacket missing and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He’s been hard at work since their unexpected little interlude rescuing the _Dracarys_ from a clandestine—that is to say _unsanctioned_ —treasure hunt in the Stone Queen’s territory. Poppy’s ship had taken more bruises than his own, but a few well placed cannonballs were enough to send a few men flying before their unfortunate adversary realized he was firing upon the King of the Western Seas. Luckily for them all Eliot keeps a cooler head than most, and the day had ended with a ceasefire.

“My king.”

Eliot drags his eyes away from Quentin’s exposed forearms with a pleased hum. He loves the way that rolls of Quentin’s tongue. It had been a sudden and not entirely subtle shift, from _um, captain?_ to _my king_ , smooth and low and always with that little glint in his eye. It’s deference and heat wrapped in two syllables. 

Quentin raises his eyebrows, and Eliot shakes himself from his reverie. Later. 

“Doctor, let’s have an update,” he requests. “Did all the men survive their injuries?”

Quentin nods, studying Poppy with a perturbed expression. His experiences on the high seas thus far have been with a particularly honorable strain of pirate, but Eliot’s vassals are numbered with as many like Poppy as like the Adiyodis. The good doctor likely disapproves of Poppy’s methods, but their trade does fundamentally require a certain comfort with moral shades of grey. And though Eliot is loathe to admit it, Poppy Kline—with only one very recent exception—is a truly excellent treasure hunter. 

“Yes,” Quentin replies, after a moment. “Hagerty was the worst off, and he’s already back on his feet and with a new scar to show off in the next port.” 

Eliot returns his gaze to Poppy. “That is _very_ fortunate for you.” 

“Yes, my king,” Poppy’s eyes still have a glint of mischief in them. “But you must admit, the _treasure_ —” 

“The treasure will go to the Stone Queen,” he declares. “As it falls rightfully within her realm, and not ours. If you had sought her permission, the bounty might have been shared. As it stands, it will serve as tribute to soothe her temper regarding your trespassing.” 

Poppy deflates. “Oh.” 

Eliot sighs deeply, sinking into his oak chair. Quentin stays by the door but doesn’t leave. 

“Poppy, you need to take this as a lesson,” he says, rubbing his fingers at his temple. “You’re lucky that we had arrived a day early for our rendezvous, or you would have been sunk and rightfully so. That’s without considering the effect of antics like this on the morale of your crew.” 

Poppy straightens. “My crew are loyal, my king.” 

“That may be, but a dishonest captain sows dissent, and my cannons can’t protect against attacks from within.” Eliot steeples his fingers under his chin. “You’re an able captain, whatever your methods. I would hate for my next tribute from the _Dracarys_ to come from the hand of your successor.” 

Poppy deflated again. “You make a good point— my king,” she says, tacking on the title a beat too late. Honestly, the things Eliot tolerates in the name of wealth and riches. “—then again, it would definitely boost morale if we were to keep the cache of gold we found—” 

Eliot shoots down that idea with a look. 

“Or not! But, um, if my gracious sovereign maybe had any _leads_ , then I could redirect frustrations into a new hunt—” 

Eliot rolls his eyes, but this he can help with, and have Poppy on a more profitable path all the sooner. He stands and considers the cabinet of books and charts he keeps chaotically organized for these purposes. 

“In their last tribute the Adiyodi’s were able to provide a very interesting document stolen from the Crown’s archives.” Eliot pulls a scroll from one of many. “It contains a portion of a map, and a riddle that claims to locate a treasure in the hidden islands of the Northern glacier floes.” 

“The _glaciers_ —” 

“A problem?” Eliot asks, map in hand. “Have you no interest in the Lost Pearls of King Rupert?” 

That legendary find is enough to silence Captain Kline’s wit. “None! We’ll dress warm, Majesty.” 

“Idri of Loria has given his _blessing_ for you to seek the treasure, for a thirty percent cut,” Eliot continues. “Should you renege on his terms, the protection of my colors will be forfeit, and he will deal with you as he sees fit. Do we understand each other?” 

Poppy nods, her bright eyes already fixed on the treasure map. 

“Yes, my king,” she promises eagerly. “I won’t let you down again.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

Eliot lets Poppy leave with the map, and in a few short minutes he hears the _thunk_ and _creak_ of the _Dracarys_ casting off from the _Whitespire_. With that episode complete, he has to laugh and shake his head, sinking back into his desk chair. 

“Is Margo still stalking the quarterdeck?” he asks Quentin, who draws closer now to perch on the edge of Eliot’s desk. 

“I’m sure,” Quentin replies. “Todd has had quite the task, ensuring she doesn’t murder your vassal.” 

“God, I can hardly blame her,” Eliot rests his face in his hands. “What a circus.” 

He only hears when Quentin moves, but then Eliot has a warm lapful of handsome man, and already his mood is lifting. Quentin smiles down on him, threading his hands into Eliot’s curls and kissing his brow. 

“You did well,” Quentin tells him. Which, Eliot _knows_ that, he’s very good at this, thank you, but still. It’s nice to be told. “You might have been at war, yet here we are.” 

Eliot hums, fitting his hand to the full curve of Quentin’s thigh. “Here we are,” he agrees. Quentin plays with the collar of Eliot’s silver blue brocade jacket, nuzzling at Eliot’s jaw until he tips his chin to catch his mouth in a kiss. It’s a pleasant recreation, kissing, and Quentin is so greedy for it, which makes it all the more enjoyable. Eliot indulges for a few moments, the bite of Quentin’s stubble a pleasure against his lips. He pauses to ask: 

“Are the men all seen to?”

“Yes.” Quentin traces the shell of Eliot’s ear with his thumb, eyes soft and understanding. “They’re all fine, El. A few scrapes and stitches, nothing more.” 

Eliot exhales sharply through his nose. A drop of blood is too much spilled on such a foolish errand, but these are the risks of his kingship. In exchange for service the _Whitespire_ must serve in turn. 

“You’re right,” he agrees, kissing the inside of Quentin’s wrist. “Let’s not think on it further.” 

Quentin combs his fingers through the hair on Eliot’s chest where his shirt hangs open, thumbing through the various necklaces and charms Eliot was fond of layering under his shirts. 

“Is there elsewhere we might turn our thoughts, then?” Quentin muses, nosing at Eliot’s temple, and yes, there certainly is. The night is truly fallen now, and Eliot’s duties relieved until the rising of the sun. 

“I think I should like to finger you until you come,” he says. “And then fuck us both sore.” 

Eliot can literally see the pulse in Quentin’s throat begin to race, but his lover pretends to think it over, hands slipping under the collar of Eliot’s shirt while he nuzzles into the curve of his jaw. 

“I’m inclined to acquiesce to that request,” he says at last, nipping at Eliot’s earlobe. Eliot grins, getting a good handful of Quentin’s ass and giving it a satisfying squeeze. 

“I thought you might.” 

They end up with Eliot sat on the end of his nest of bedding, and Quentin knelt up over his lap, his arms braced against the wooden arch over their heads. Eliot considers the pleasant flushed arch of Quentin’s hardening cock while he slicks his fingers with honey thick oil. He’s out of his shirt, and he’s got Q’s trousers down around his thighs. Quentin wasn’t wearing any drawers underneath, which made for a nice surprise.

“Look at all this, just for me,” Eliot hums, the swell of Quentin’s ass filling his palm so nicely. 

“Eliot,” Quentin urges him, impatient and red-faced already from Eliot’s decadent scrutiny. Eliot lets him suffer, kissing around the base of his cock at an indulgent pace. It’s been a particularly long day, and this is Eliot’s reward. Besides, its plain from the hard nudge of Quentin’s arousal against his cheek that Eliot’s bedmate is enjoying himself plenty. 

Eliot takes a sojourn up to the trail of hair that crosses Quentin’s belly, resting his cheek there to concentrate on the first exploratory touch of his wet fingers against Quentin’s entrance. Quentin groans as Eliot circles the pad of his middle finger over his asshole, and the sound vibrates deep and stirring through Eliot’s breast.

Eliot won’t pretend he doesn’t like how Quentin fits under him most nights, compact and lovely, but it’s the sturdy masculine parts of him that Eliot keeps tucked most dearly in his heart. The coarse hair on his thighs, his wide calloused palms, the hint of stubble rasping on his chin hardly an hour after shaving, all of it makes Eliot _hungry_ in a way that doesn’t feel fully in his control. The only blessing is that Quentin seems just as hungry for him. 

“Eliot,” he mutters, torn between the pressure of Eliot’s fingers and the tease of his tongue against the head of his cock. “God, that feels good _._ ” 

“Shh,” Eliot promises, keeping him steady with an arm around his waist. “I have you.”

“God, you do,” Quentin says, head tipped back and thighs trembling over Eliot’s lap. One of Quentin’s fine hands settles in Eliot’s hair, and he lets himself be guided, taking the head of Quentin’s cock into his mouth and penetrating him in earnest. 

What a treat, to finger a man to the point of coming, the weight of a cock heavy on his tongue. Eliot has been spoiled, these last months with Quentin. He thought he was getting what he needed, seeing Idri once or twice a year and eager tavern boys in between, but this must be some kind of paradise. Quentin makes such lovely wanting sounds. Eliot closes his eyes and soaks in the music of it, his own arousal throbbing through him with an anticipatory ache. 

“Oh, fuck, Eliot,” Quentin bites out when Eliot begins to stroke two fingers firmly and deliberately against his inner sweet spot. “My king—” 

And then there’s _that_. Eliot leaves off sucking kisses into the length of Quentin’s cock to watch him soak in pleasure. He’s beautiful. Handsome. He reminds Eliot of everything he likes best about being a man who loves men. 

But Quentin also makes him feel like royalty. Reverent, not subservient. A king and his consort. Eliot has to scold himself too often, remind himself that it was only temporary, but it’s hard when every moment with him feels this _right_.

“I’m going to come,” Quentin says, arm trembling where he’s still holding himself up. 

“Of course you are, Q,” Eliot replies. “Of course you are.” 

He takes Quentin back into his mouth and strokes his fingers hard inside him, and it’s only moments before Quentin cries out and his spend washes across Eliot’s tongue. He swallows, just to save them the mess, and pulls off, still petting his fingers over Quentin’s prostate while he shakes and shudders. 

God, he’s wonderful. He’s lovely, and Eliot can taste him salty and bitter on his tongue, can smell the sharp, clean, sweat of him. Eliot is so, _so_ hard, and he wants, but Quentin is already shying away from his fingers, a high, oversensitive sound escaping him. 

“Too much?” He asks, carefully extricating his fingers as Quentin shivers. He braces his arm where Quentin’s thigh meets his ass.

“Never too much,” Quentin assures him. He lets his arms drop so they’re wrapped around Eliot’s shoulders. One hand curls into the longer hair at the back of Eliot’s head and he wants to purr like a cat. 

“I recall you promising to fuck me,” Quentin says next, chest still heaving.

“Yes,” Eliot agrees, hands full of Quentin’s thighs. “But I’m open to parley, if you’re too…” 

Quentin shakes his head, sinking into Eliot’s lap, kissing him hard and insistent. He rocks down onto Eliot’s arousal, and Eliot can’t help but fuck his hips up against him. 

“I want it,” Quentin pleads— _demands_ really, and doesn’t that just set Eliot all a flutter— “Give it to me, Eliot.” 

Eliot does. It’s little trouble to roll Quentin onto his back. Eliot gets his pants worked down his legs and tosses them aside, then frees his cock from the cruel confines of his own trousers. Some more slick eases the way and then Eliot has Quentin’s knees nearly about his ears as he pushes inside him.

“Alright, sweetheart?” Eliot asks, when they’re flush, and he’s sure he isn’t about to come just from the first shock of tight slick pressure around his cock. “Do you need—” 

Quentin shakes his head, his hair loose and gorgeous against the velvet bedclothes. “I want you to do it hard.”

And...well. King he may be but this is a request Eliot is happy to obey. He gives Quentin his cock and the _sounds_ he makes. Eliot covets each one, cracked and harsh and hungry as Eliot uses him deliciously.

It must be overwhelming, bordering on too much and unpleasant, but then, Quentin likes that, doesn’t he? And he knows how to ask for what he likes, a quality Eliot can appreciate in a man. 

_The doctor asks your help in the surgery, Majesty_ , had come the call one sunny afternoon last month, wherein “help” turned out to mean Quentin going to his knees and goading Eliot into fucking his mouth without mercy. Lord, Eliot had felt like a beast but Quentin moaned for it, gasping and choking with tears streaming down his handsome face as he swallowed everything Eliot gave him. Quentin had come like that, on his knees, and it had fundamentally undone something in Eliot, he thinks, because all he could do for the rest of the day was hold Quentin to his chest and kiss his precious sore mouth.

“How is it this good?” Quentin gasps in the present, his words punched out with every determined thrust of Eliot’s hips, “How is it this good, every time?”

Eliot has no answer except to pin him down and fuck until he spends.

It’s pleasure. It’s bliss. It’s a breath of release that even Eliot in all his hedonistic tendencies has yet to grow accustomed to. Not here, not with Quentin. With Quentin’s hands in his hair and his thighs tight around his hips and their lips just barely brushing in a kiss Eliot comes. He comes and then the world comes rushing back in. They’re sweaty and tacky with spend. A mess—sex always is— and their faces ruddy and their breath harsh. Quentin laughs a little, eyes bright, and so does Eliot, until he has to pull out with a sensitive hiss. Quentin’s smile dips as well, wincing at the discomfort, but Eliot summons it back with a lazy kiss as their bodies ease together against the feather ticking. He strays from Quentin’s mouth until he’s doing little more than breathing against his lover’s face. It feels good to be close, even though the urgency of earlier has all bled out of him.

Eliot rests his eyes, just for a moment, though he can feel Quentin’s gaze on him.

“What?” He asks, rubbing their ankles together where they meet. 

“Nothing.” One of Quentin’s hands rubs small, lazy circles at the base of Eliot’s spine. Another indulgence.

“Nothing,” Eliot repeats, skeptical. He rests his weight up on one elbow so he can survey his lover properly. Quentin is already getting sleepy, dear man that he is.

“I’m just glad,” Quentin murmurs, blinking slowly as a smile plays at the bow of his lips. He pets under Eliot’s chin with his thumb. “So glad that you chose me.”

Eliot combs his fingers through Quentin’s silky brown hair, his heart throbbing as though Quentin were squeezing it in his bare hand. He bends down again to kiss him goodnight.

“Sleep well, doctor.”

He stays with him until he’s certain Quentin is in a deep and peaceful rest. Eliot should encourage Quentin to return to his own quarters, but he rejects the idea with hardly a thought. They’d kept up some pretense for a while at the beginning, but lately Quentin sleeps in Eliot’s bed whether or not they fuck. Eliot can’t pretend he doesn’t get better rest when he’s tucked around Quentin, who tends to starfish out in the middle of the bed. He can’t pretend it isn’t colder on the occasional nights Quentin stays up late reading or tending a patient in the surgery.

Like he said, he’s been spoiled. It’s all too easy to pretend there’s nothing beyond the boundaries of the _Whitespire_ and the open sea. No one with expectations of Eliot. No normal life that Eliot is selfishly holding Quentin back from. 

_I’m just so glad that you chose me_. 

Doesn’t Quentin see that he was the one to choose Eliot? He chose him, and he’ll be the one to leave him once the sense of adventure wears off and he realizes Eliot has nothing to offer but a short, dangerous life where he’ll always have to be second to the duties of Eliot’s crown. 

The warmth of the afterglow gone cold, Eliot carefully extricates himself from Quentin’s embrace, mindful not to wake his lover. He touches Quentin’s chin, and drops a kiss on his brow before slipping out of bed and finding his trousers. His discarded shirt left open makes him decent enough for the main deck and then Eliot steps out into the starlight. 

“You look well ridden,” Margo comments dryly when Eliot joins his queen on the quarterdeck. She’s keeping first watch that evening, the spokes of the ship’s wheel steady in her hands as they sail due west. “Have you left our dear doctor all in one piece?” 

Eliot laughs, shameless despite the melancholy that chased him from his warm bed into the night. “No lasting damage.” 

Margo grins, sharp, and Eliot presses a kiss to her hair, taking her in his arms and resting his chin on the top of her head. 

“Have you decided on a course?” 

“Hm?” Eliot’s gaze is caught in the stars, and the light of the crescent moon shining down. On the whisper and crash of the sea around them, his only true mistress. She was cold and unchanging, but constant. His freedom and his prison, and one day—if he’s lucky enough to die on his own terms—his grave. 

Margo reaches up to pet Eliot’s cheek with one slim hand. “Our course, El. Where should we next seek our fortune?”

A bit of the chill night air sinks into Eliot’s bones, and he has a moment of clarity. He thinks of Quentin, asleep below decks in all his sweet earnest temporariness when he says, “Actually, Bambi, I thought we might go home for a spell.” 

In most of the ways that matter, Eliot already is home. Still, there’s a village, in a little cove tucked between the cliffs on the westernmost edge of his saltwater kingdom. His sovereign territory. His home on land, a hearth kept in his name. 

“King’s Cottage.” 

“Yes. I’ve been gone too long as it is, there’ll be court work stacking up. Besides, the men have earned some shoreleave without the risk of the Navy thundering down on us.” 

Eliot doesn’t have to look to feel Margo’s brow furrow. 

“We don’t usually take _new_ crew home,” she says, carefully. Eliot sighs. 

“I would say Quentin has proven himself by now,” he replies, flapping his hand absently. “He’ll get up to all manner of potion brewing and studying all the local flora—” 

“But will you tell him exactly where it is we’re going?” Margo asks, the unspoken question lying underneath her words. 

_Does Quentin know who waits for you there?_

Eliot straightens, his hands resting on Margo’s shoulders. “He’ll find out soon enough.” 

Margo tips her head up to offer Eliot an unimpressed eyebrow.

“You’re well on course to make an ass of yourself with this, Eliot.” 

Eliot scoffs. “Please,” he says, “I’m a king, Margo. I have responsibilities that reach further than who’s in my bed, and Quentin should know it before he gets too invested.”

“Right, because that’s what this is about. You think _he’s_ the one who’s getting too invested.”

Margo is far too smart for her own good.

“I do miss them, Margo,” Eliot says instead. Time at the Cottage is always borrowed. Stolen. The High King can’t truly have a home without endangering those he holds dear. But that means Eliot has missed so much. “We can hardly stay away forever, just to spare my lover’s feelings.” 

“I miss them too,” Margo agrees. “But you think this will make everything sharp and easy. El, what happens when he passes the test? In four more months it will only be so much worse.” 

“I know.”

Eliot watches the stars, toying with the gold ring tucked in between his myriad charms and pendants on its plain leather thong. 

They were going home. And Quentin—for better or for worse—was going to meet Eliot’s family.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry again for the unintentional break, but I hope you enjoy this update! Grad school and global catastrophes have kept my focus elsewhere but I still have nothing but love for this 'verse and every intention of finishing it with enthusiasm. Plot is coming into play but you can always trust a happy here. I look forward to your thoughts on this new adventure! 
> 
> Thanks to queliotpasta for her excellent beta-job!

Eliot has been fluttering around the deck all morning. Ever since the call of “Land!” just after dawn Quentin has had about as much success pinning him down as he might plucking the seafoam from the curl of the waves that part before the _Whitespire_ as they near their destination. 

It’s not as if they’re typically free to laze about in bed all hours of the day. The High King must have a clock inscribed on his very heart, rising as he does with the sun to hear the report of the night lookouts and confer with his queen over the tasks of the day. There are many duties for a ship’s captain, and hardly fewer for a ship’s doctor. Still, it’s been a particularly shifty morning following what Quentin can only call a particularly _secretive_ week.

He knows their destination in name only. King’s Cottage. Eliot’s sovereign territory, as the pirates call it, whatever their cavalier use of the term. It’s safe, there’s people there, and the Navy won’t find them. It’s...a deciduous environment, with high rocky cliffs and a white sand coast, which Quentin learns by observing the landscape coming into view as they draw near. 

That is the extent of his knowledge. The men—Eliot more than any—seem to keep the topic out of their mouths, as though by speaking of it too freely the secret might be stolen away by the wind and delivered straight into the Crown’s ears. 

And so Quentin waits, but this is all too much. Eliot hasn’t given him a glance since he slipped out of bed while Quentin was still asleep this morning. In the space between the kiss pressed to his brow and Quentin opening his eyes Eliot had dressed himself and vanished. Quentin seeks him out now, only to offer him a cup of coffee and a bite of hardtack, but Eliot is up in the rigging, helping the crew to trim sail in blue velvet and silk. 

It’s been nearly three hours without so much as a good morning, or a kiss, or a _Q, what do you say to this new pair of trousers, are they snug enough?_ After months of Eliot constantly orbiting him like a moon of Jupiter, this odd avoidance is beginning to smack of intentionality. Quentin looks up to find Eliot among the sails again, perhaps to wait by the right shroud to meet him when he descends, but the High King is already gone, having scurried away _yet again_ while Quentin was lost in his thoughts. 

Hmm.

Quentin has an easier time finding Margo, but no luck in getting answers. 

“Oh, I’m not touching any of _that_ with a ten foot oar,” she says, rolling her eyes and barking an order at Phillips: “Be careful with that silk! If you pull a thread you’ll be paying for the loss, mark my words.” 

“But is he alright?” Quentin asks, unnerved by the Queen’s reply. “I...have I done something wrong?” 

Margo sighed, equally exasperated by her crew and her ship’s doctor. “It’s hardly to do with you, Coldwater,” she says at last. “Just bear in mind that being a great king does not bar the captain from being an incredibly stupid man.” 

Quentin mulls that over briefly, before Margo asks, “Have you no tasks? Shall I set you one?” 

That sends him scurrying back to his surgery, where indeed he has plenty to keep him occupied. While Eliot has been frustratingly vague about the flora and fauna of his sovereign territory, (“I don’t know, Q. It’s on land. There’s plants. Some of them may be edible. You ask too much of a humble sailor.”) Quentin has been assured it will be an appropriate place for him to refill many of his dwindling natural cures. So he’s filling crates with glass jars that he’s scrubbed clean with sand and saltwater. He’ll boil them on shore and use them for jarring and canning whatever healing resources he finds between the land and Eliot’s subjects. 

“Anything else, doctor?” Todd asks, breath slightly labored as he returns from carrying the third crate of jars and phials up to the dinghy set aside for Quentin’s equipment. 

“Just the one more, and I’ll carry my own kit,” he replies, tucking extra shears and oilcloth gloves into his satchel along with his usual supplies. “Will we be able to return to the ship, should the need arise?” 

“I don’t see why not,” Todd agrees amiably as he picks up the last crate. “We’ll have men coming back and forth from the watch crews, so you’ll likely have no trouble—”

Todd pauses at a shout from on deck that Quentin doesn’t hear. Sticking his head out the door of the surgery, the quartermaster listens for a moment before calling back “Aye, Avery, tell him we’ll be along.” 

“Something the matter?” Quentin asks when Todd returns, allowing him to slip some extra waxed paper and charcoal into the crate. 

“No, no, just the king setting off for shore, he wanted to know that you were squared away.” 

“Eliot—the captain is leaving already?” Quentin asks, a feeling in his belly like stone dropping into a pond. He can’t say why he feels such an ill wind—Eliot is a king, and this is a busy morning of many preparations— but he knows that something is amiss and it has to do with their—tryst? Affair? Romance? 

Four months in the High King’s bed, and all Quentin can be certain of is he doesn’t want the first time he speaks to Eliot today to be on dry land. 

Leaving Todd below, Quentin stumbles up the short stairway and out on deck, where indeed Eliot is supervising the hoisting of a longboat over the side of the ship.

“Alright, you know who you are, all ashore who’s going!” Eliot calls, his hair loose in the morning breeze. He truly looks like a prince, another of his white shirts covered in a long blue coat with brass buttons. 

“My king—” 

Quentin’s suspicions about Eliot’s dodging are confirmed when their eyes meet and Eliot visibly swallows. He steels himself to deal with this head-on but finds himself tangled in the dozen or so men piling into the boat with their satchels and trinkets bound for the shore. When he finishes tripping over their eager feet, Eliot is readying to hop on board at the front, his back already turned to Quentin again. 

“Eliot, _wait—_ ”

“Must be going, Q, lots to get done and they’ll need the boat sooner than later to get the rest of the supplies—” 

“ _Captain_.” Eliot already has one leg over the rail when Quentin tugs him by the back of the neck into a brief hard kiss. 

“Why won’t you _look_ at me?” he demands, his voice low but fervent. Eliot blinks, and Quentin takes in the fact that he still has the High King of the Western Seas by the chin, and also that he’s just kissed him rather forcefully in front of a longboat full of his crew, who are all staring with various expressions of incredulousness. 

Had that been...a wrong thing to do?

It’s hardly been a _secret_ that they’ve been involved, but, um, perhaps there are certain boundaries that one shouldn’t cross with one’s pirate lover in front of his men, or— 

Anyway, Quentin certainly has Eliot’s attention now.

“Excuse me, Captain,” Quentin says, dropping his hands as his cheeks heat. “I only meant—ugh, lord—” He dropped his voice to a whisper, despite the stares of the crew. “—Eliot, I feel as though there is something you aren’t telling me.”

Eliot glances away, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. When he looks back, however, his gaze is tender, and...apologetic? 

“I’ve already done this all wrong,” he says. Quentin looks away, still embarrassed, but then he feels the press of Eliot’s hand to his cheek. 

“We’re safe here,” Eliot promises, stroking his thumb over Quentin’s jaw. “I have...people that I want you to meet, that’s all. People who are special to me. They’re probably waiting for us already.” 

“Oh.” Quentin furrowed his brow, still uncertain. 

“After, we can talk.” Eliot’s eyes twinkle briefly. “Perhaps somewhere with a _bit_ more privacy.” 

He raises his eyebrows at the observing crewmen who are all suddenly quite busy with some urgent discussion amongst themselves. 

“Eliot, who—” 

“I’ll see you on land, doctor,” Eliot says, however, already pulling away. He swings his other leg over the rail and drops into the longboat beside his men. “Todd will help you get all your bits and bobs ashore.” 

The king signals to the deck without waiting for Quentin’s reply, and the small boat is lowered to the water and cast off in moments. 

“Ready, doctor?” 

Quentin startles, yanking his gaze from the longboat rowing its way to the short some hundred yards off. He turns to find Todd waiting for him, his own little rowboat already hoisted over the side, all packed and with a bit of tarp over top to keep off the worst of the sea spray. 

“Yes, yes, let’s go.” Quentin checks his satchel, which has all his usual essentials and a clean shirt and drawers, before following Todd into the dinghy, steadying himself uneasily on the sailor’s shoulder as he steps over the gap of the rail and onto the narrow free space of the rocking boat. Whatever revelations his lover has in store Quentin intends to find out sooner rather than later. 

And indeed he does. Todd sets some pulleys in motion and in a minute they’re plunking into the choppy waves of the sea. Quentin is given the duty of keeping the rudder steady as Todd rows, and thus has a fine view of Eliot’s boat as it touches onto a sandy beach only a few minutes ahead of them. It’s too far off to see well, but he can see Eliot rising taller than his men as he jumps out into the knee-deep waves to help drag the boat ashore.

He can also see the woman who steps out from the path leading into a shady copse of trees. She’s wearing fawn brown skirts and waves eagerly as Eliot steps out of the surf. 

“Todd, who is that?” Quentin asks. He tries to stymie the sinking feeling in his gut. Perhaps Eliot failed to mention he had a sister, or certainly he must have many friends here in his supposedly sovereign territory. 

“Who, sir?” Todd asks, looking over his shoulder towards the shore. 

“That um, the woman,” Quentin says, trying his best to keep his voice light as Eliot leaves his men on shore and approaches her in his great bounding strides. “It looks like the captain knows her well.” 

“Oh—well, yes. I would have thought you knew, doctor,” Todd replies, giving Quentin an odd look. “That’s—perhaps it isn’t for me to say, but it’s hardly a secret—”

“Todd, please.” 

Todd cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Well...that’s the Lady of King’s Cottage. His Majesty’s wife, sir.”

Quentin’s glass—a gift from Eliot, one of his own that had been long replaced but kept for sentimentality—is right there in the front pocket of his bag, and his curiosity wins out over his dignity. He fishes it out of its compartment and brings it to his eye just in time to see Eliot bend to kiss the woman on the mouth, his arms familiar and fond around her waist. He says something with a rakish grin and she blushes and slaps him playfully on the chest. 

“Oh.” 

Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. Eliot didn’t—at least he’d _thought_ —he’d never given any indication— 

Quentin feels queasy in a way he hasn’t since his first weeks at sea. A pirate king need hardly keep the morals of lawful society, but surely Eliot hasn’t made him party to the slander of a marriage vow without so much as a word of warning? 

If he’d known—if he’d had any inkling at all—Quentin could never have touched him. Could never have given of himself so surely, let himself fall so readily— 

Eliot can’t possibly expect him to look into his wife’s face and lie on his behalf. That isn’t the man whose bed—laughter, tenderness and desires—Quentin has shared for four months. 

Is it? 

For a moment all Quentin wants is to leap overboard and swim right back to the safety of the _Whitespire_. He’ll go back, and he’ll keep to his surgery, and dueling lessons with Eliot, and nighttime tumbles full of shared secrets and kisses and deep red wine. 

He wants to go back, but instead he forces himself to look to the beach again. Eliot’s wife turns away from him to call to someone behind her, and Quentin can see clearly as a little girl with an unruly mess of blonde curls dashes out from the copse of trees to launch herself into Eliot’s arms. With the aid of the glass there can be no mistaking the gleeful exclamation on her lips as Eliot tosses her into the air and catches her again with a beaming smile on his face. 

_Papa!_

It’s an awkward silence that takes Todd and Quentin the rest of the way to the pebbled beach. 

Eliot is the picture of domestic happiness as he holds his daughter at his hip and speaks with her before she squirms in his arms to be let down. He speaks with his wife again, his eyes wandering from her to where Quentin approaches them. Quentin feels akin to an approaching ship, cutting through turbulent waters until he stands before Eliot and the source of his suspect behavior. 

Eliot speaks with Todd first, sending him off with a few brisk instructions regarding the cargo to be unloaded, but it buys only a moment before he’s forced to acknowledge Quentin’s presence. 

“You’re being rude, Eliot. Introduce us to your new crewman,” says Eliot’s wife, smiling warmly in Quentin’s direction. 

Eliot purses his lips, looking very uneasy as he rubs the back of his neck. His daughter eyes Quentin with the open uncertainty of a young child, using Eliot’s long legs as a barricade to hide behind. 

“Of course. Forgive me, dear.” Eliot kisses his wife’s hand, light and quick. He gathered his countenance quickly, as always, but it was plain he was feeling nervous, if not particularly guilty. “Quentin, meet my lady wife, Fen Waugh-Bladesmith.”

 _Wife._ Todd warned him, but to hear it spoken so plainly...

Quentin clears his throat, standing up tall. “Pleased to meet you, um...my lady?” 

This gets a real laugh out of Eliot, and a fond eye roll from his wife.

“My _lord husband_ is completely full of it, Dr. Coldwater. Please call me Fen. Eliot has written to me about you quite a bit.”

_Oh, has he?_

“Ah, thank you,” Quentin says, remembering to offer Fen a short bow. He feels all a jumble, and not only because the earth feels slightly as though it’s rolling under his feet. “You must feel free to call me Quentin, as well.” 

“Isn’t he polite, Eliot,” Fen says, delighted as she looks to her husband with a teasing smile. “And after you sprung us both on him without a word of warning.” 

Quentin realizes Fen Waugh-Bladesmith’s smile is sharper than he originally gave her credit for, though no less cheerful for it. Eliot’s cheeks go pink as he clears his throat and Quentin thinks he might like this woman quite a lot, despite the awkward circumstances. 

“Hello!” Further conversation between adults is interrupted when the little girl pops out from behind Eliot’s legs, having found her courage. 

“Speaking of,” Fen says with good humor. “Quentin, meet our daughter, Fray.” 

“Pardon me, Madam,” Eliot interjects, apparently finding his voice as he scoops the girl up onto his hip once more. “But I believe you mean to say ‘Her _Royal Highness_ Fray Waugh-Bladesmith, Princess of King’s Cottage, the Great Western Seas and all her Commonwealth Territories’.”

Eliot’s daughter— Fray—a _daughter_ , dear god—lets out a peal of giggles, and Quentin can’t help but be charmed. He’s—what does he even feel right now? Who could say—but this is a child, and a happy one at that. A child that Eliot clearly loves, whatever the complexity of their own situation currently unfolding. 

“I’m honored to meet you, Your Highness,” Quentin says, and he manages his most courtly bow, to Fray’s great delight. When he straightens, Eliot is looking at him with so much gratitude in his eyes that Quentin has to toss his glance downward, his cheeks heating.

“And this,” Eliot continues, looking down to talk to the child in his arms. “Is Quentin the Magician. I rescued him from a sinking ship.” 

Eliot does _not_ mention that he was the one who set the ship on its course to sink, and Fray looks up at him with an appropriate level of childish awe. 

“Does he know any magic tricks?” she asks. 

“A special kind of magic. He’s a doctor,” Eliot explains. “He keeps my men fit and healthy for sailing. And...and he’s your papa’s very dear friend.” 

Eliot seems to wince even as the words leave his mouth—which is slim solace to Quentin because _honestly what in God’s creation_ —but Fray hardly notices, surveying Quentin with mild interest. 

“Okay,” she declares, before tugging at the pockets of Eliot’s coat. “Papa, did you bring me any presents?” 

“Well, now that you’re no longer an exciting new topic,” Fen says to Quentin, laughing. “I understand you’d be very interested in the contents of my medicinal gardens. We may not have everything you’re used to at the universities, but I think you’ll find plenty to aid your potion-making.” 

“I—yes. Thank you, my la—Fen,” Quentin says, correcting himself when Fen raises one eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ll have much to teach me.” 

“Oh, Eliot. I like him already.” 

Fen takes Quentin by the elbow, pointing him towards a path that leads away from the beach and into a shady wood. She pats his arm as they step onto well packed soil, Eliot trailing behind them still conversing with his daughter. 

“Don’t worry about all this,” Fen assures him. “For what it’s worth, I can tell you’re going to be my favorite of Eliot’s lovers by far.”

Quentin stiffens, but is hardly in a position to deny his involvement with this woman’s husband, especially given that he kissed him in front of a dozen gossiping crewmen less than a half hour ago. 

“Um—please, Mrs. Waugh. I hope you know—that is it was certainly not my intention—I mean if I had any idea I would have _never_ —” 

To his surprise Fen only laughs. 

“Oh, Eliot has really made a mess of this,” she says, greatly amused at Quentin’s discomfort. “And I won’t be the one to undo it for him.”

That hardly clarifies things at _all_ , and Quentin means to speak again when a call sounds from somewhere in the wood behind them. 

“All hail the High King!” 

As if from the very air itself, the reply comes from what must be at least a hundred voices.

_“Long may he reign!”_

Among cheers and shouts they step from the woods into what Quentin realizes is the bottom of an entire bowl shaped valley scooped out of the cliffs that form the peninsula around them. It’s small, perhaps half mile across, but dotted thickly with houses, paths and cut terraces growing crops and gardens that reach all the way up to the horizon overlooking the sea beyond. And streaming from every house and hovel and blacksmith’s forge are Eliot’s subjects waiting to meet them. Fen tugs Quentin gently to the side in order to let dozens of people—men and women, young and old, scarred sailors and fresh faced young ladies and all in between—welcome their king home. 

“Your Majesty, welcome back!” 

“What word of the King in the North, sire—”

“You must see my little Janie, my king, she’s nearly walking since you’ve last been with us—” 

“—have you lost any men in the raids, Majesty? I was so fearful to have Aiden leave home so young—”

“He’s going to be some time,” Fen tells Quentin, a fond smile at her lips as they watch Eliot surrounded with the enthusiasm of the villagers. He’s every inch the High King, even with a babe on his hip, as sure as he stood on the deck of the _Whitespire_ with a cutlass in his hand. “The people love him, and will all want his ear. Come with me and I’ll get you set up for the time being.” 

Quentin nods. He and Eliot’s talk will have to wait. It’s the cost of playing consort to a king. 

“Lead the way.” 

They wind their way up the sharply sloping paths away from the crowd, until they’re nearly at the top of the cliffs. Quentin can hear the crash of the waves far below, and still smell the salt in the air as they approach a friendly looking wood and stucco building. It might be a fine house, sturdy stone foundations marking it as more permanent that some of the wood frame shanty’s they pass by, but a sign swinging over the door marks the building’s true purpose. 

_The Cottage Inn: Fine Food and Drink._

Quentin almost wants to laugh despite the churning seas his lover has cast them out on. Of course the heart of Eliot’s secret kingdom would be a pub. He finds Fen smiling, as though she’s in on the joke, and leads him to the door.

“Quentin, welcome to King’s Cottage.”

* * *

Lord, it has been a day, and all of his own making. 

Hardly news in the life of High King Eliot Waugh. 

The sun has set, all sailors and supplies coming ashore have done so, and all subjects in need of a clasped hand or quick word have received it. With Quentin—damn him, his dear Q—tucked away in his own private room two doors away, left to stew in the proof of Eliot’s many inadequacies, Eliot seeks the comforts of his marriage bed. 

Those comforts namely being missed gossip and Fen’s charming companionship.

“Oh, so you’ll be keeping my company tonight?” she says when Eliot drops his coat over the end of their bed. His wife is such a _dear_ , all wide eyes and fake incredulity. “And not your lover’s? Surely you have plenty to discuss.” 

“For god’s sake woman, you knew I was a fool when you married me. Let me have a drink and braid your hair.” 

“Alright then, you cad. Would you like to know which of your subjects plans to try and kill you at council this time?” 

“I’m on tenterhooks, dearest.”

So Eliot has a whiskey, and strips down to his shirt and drawers so he can comfortably sit behind Fen in her feather bed and help her take her hair down while she fills him in on the many municipal dramas of the domain she rules on his behalf. It’s mostly domestic squabbles, or news of fresh trade routes popping up for their little black market. There’s been a few babies born and a few retired sailors passed on that will need Eliot’s respects paid to their kin, but all soothing and mundane, until:

“There were a few men, soldiers, spotted asking questions at the edge of town.” 

Eliot pauses, then carefully resumes his careful plaiting, keeping his voice light as he eases Fen’s dark honey locks through his fingers.

“When was this?” 

Fen yawns. 

“Hm, maybe two months ago.”

“And?”

“And they met with some ‘bandits’ on their journey back to the Crown and were never seen again. Very mysterious, but you know how dangerous those backwoods roads can be.” Fen’s eyes twinkle as she glances over her shoulder. “You have loyal men here, Eliot.”

“Good.”

Eliot finishes his braid and ties it with a new piece of ribbon—not every scrap of silk they steal must be sold, after all—when the side door to Fen’s room turns, and a beloved little blonde head pokes through the door. 

“Everything alright, darling?” Fen asks Fray, who fiddles shyly with the collar of her nightgown. Nearly five already, it makes Eliot’s heart twinge to see how much she’s grown in the time he’s been away. His place is with his ship, on the open sea, but his freedom comes at a cost. He’s missed so much. 

“I want to stay with Papa,” Fray says, pouting her bottom lip in a manner that slices through Eliot’s defenses better than any cutlass. 

“You’re a big girl with your own room now, remember?” Fen says with a mother’s firm patience. “We can all have breakfast together come morning.” 

“Please, Mama?” Fray pleads. 

“Come now, mama,” Eliot cajoles, tugging on the end of Fen’s braid. “Just this once?”

“‘Just this once’ he says,” Fen mutters, but she’s smiling as she pulls back the sheets and helps Fray scramble up between them. 

“Tell me a story!”

Eliot drops a kiss on his daughter’s head as they all settle under the covers, Fray snuggling into his arms at once.

“Hm, alright. Let’s see…” Eliot says, pretending to ponder as Fen watches them fondly. “Just a few weeks ago, Quentin the Magician saved your Papa’s life.”

Fray gasps, always a riveted audience. 

“We were in the heat of battle against a wicked beast known as the Fox…”

Eliot does love a story. And if things are easier in a tale of adventure, when Quentin the Magician braves all to save his ally the High King and slay the wicked Fox, who would blame him? 

“So,” Fen says when Fray has fallen asleep and they are back to their gossip. “Tell me about your Quentin.” 

Fray lets out a little snore against Eliot’s chest, and he keeps his eyes on her dear face instead of his wife’s discerning gaze. “I’m not sure that I should call him mine.” 

“By the look on his face this afternoon, I would say you’ve already given him that impression.”

“He’s a grown man—we both are,” Eliot grumbles. “We needn’t read drama where there is none.” 

“ _Honestly_. When you bring a man here it’s because you trust him,” Fen says, ever patient, “When you bring a man here and he’s never heard of us…”

“Fen, please—”

“—it’s because he shares your bed, and you care for him. And because you are afraid.” 

Damn these women, always cutting right to the heart of him.

“Has it been so many that I have become predictable?” Eliot jokes weakly. 

“No, which is why it worries me. It was a little cruel, Eliot.”

“Yes, well, I’m a little cruel.”

Fen’s large lovely eyes are full of concern. 

“No, you aren’t.”

“I have responsibilities,” Eliot says, swallowing. “To my vassals, to _you—“_

“You have many responsibilities to me,” Fen agrees. “Your heart is not one of them. Nor your body. You could have told him months ago.”

These are things he already knows. It doesn’t make the risk any less to his heart. 

“As to your crown,” Fen continues. “Do men not join or leave your crew freely?” 

Eliot glances at her askance, and she rolls her eyes, well aware of Quentin’s bargain. 

“Join freely within reason,” she corrects. “We are pirates.” 

“Indeed.” 

“I keep my point. Why should Quentin not be free to make the same choice as regards your bed?” Fen asks. “In eight months he must have seen the truth of this life.” 

Eliot strokes his fingers through his daughter’s soft and wild hair. “I pray that he has. But it’s as you say, it must be a free choice.” 

“He can’t make a free choice while you withhold your truths. You can’t act the king with him, Eliot. He’s a man, and you must speak to him as one.”

“I do.” Eliot says. “At least, mostly. But he—” he struggles to find the words. “He likes me to be a king as well. Others have made me choose—Lord knows I can only be as a king with Idri, fond of him as I am—but with Quentin, I think I might be allowed to be both.” 

Fen smiles, and tangles their fingers together over Fray’s sleeping form. 

“That’s good,” she says, “But there doesn’t have to be a reason, El. It’s alright just to love someone for their own self. Because you want to share yourself with him. All parts noble and common.” 

“I…” Eliot swallows. “I do. God help me, Fen, but I do.” 

“Then why be afraid?”

“Why, indeed,” Eliot murmurs, a ticking clock on his mind, the seconds passing as steadily as his own heartbeat. Seconds ticking until the four remaining months of Quentin’s contract are up. Seconds ticking until the thrill of adventure and the passion of Eliot’s bed grow cold to him. 

Seconds ticking until the noose dangling over Eliot’s head tightens around his neck—the fate that threatens every pirate, no matter what crowns or titles they may bear—and all of his riches and adventures and romance prove themselves mere dust to be ground under the Crown’s heel. 

“I should tell you, also,” Fen says, after a few moment’s quiet. “Baylor came back to town a few days ago.” 

Eliot stiffens.

“And how is your brother?” he asks, a new note of bitterness in his voice. “Committed any foolish robberies lately that could bring the Crown thundering down on all our heads?” 

“I hope not,” Fen says, trouble furrowing her brow. “But we’ve hardly spoken. He came to the Cottage so drunk, Eliot, and the things he was saying—I didn’t want Fray to see him.” 

Fen looks at their daughter with so much love, and so much fear. Eliot would have killed Baylor long ago just for that, but he’s restrained himself for Fen’s sake. 

“He can speak all the poison he wants,” Eliot says, a note of caution in his voice. “But you must know, if he were to act—“

“Let’s not speak of it tonight.” Fen’s voice remains a low whisper as she turns her gaze from his. “What must be done will be done. I only—I didn’t want any secrets between us.” 

Eliot brings Fen’s hand to his lips and kisses it. 

“I know,” he says. Then, offering her a smile in the dim light, “I might stand to learn a thing or two from you in that regard.” 

“Oh, believe me, dear, I _know_.” 

Eliot laughed. He may not act the faithful husband, but he had missed his wife dearly. 

With solid earth under him for the first time in months, Eliot curled around his family and found a mostly restful slumber. He would face his challenges as king and lover in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Quentin rises with the sun.

(He’s not sure that he ever truly got to sleep.)

Fen set him up in the back garden the day before, and as daylight creeps over the horizon he lights a fire in the stone cooking pit and sets a few mismatched pots to heat. Then he takes in the lay of the garden, and with Fen’s permission to harvest for the _Whitespire_ as he sees fit (“That’s what it’s _for,_ Mr. Coldwater.”) he soon fills a table with green waxy aloe fronds—to treat burns from the sun and gunpowder alike— and tender young chamomile and feverfew. That he’ll hang in the sun to dry and grind down for pain-easing tea. The Lady of King’s Cottage keeps an impressive garden, and Quentin has to pull his botanist’s guide from his satchel to look up a few of the flowering herbs. In this way he discovers a lush plot of pink blossomed valerian, which will steep to a good syrup to replace his dwindling supply of sleep aids for men kept awake by aches and pains after battle.

It’s good work, and by the time he can feel the true heat of the morning sun on the back of his neck Quentin has a pot simmering, and he’s soaking the aloe to draw out it’s yellow resin. He’s rolling up his sleeves and thinking of seeking out Fen to ask for some twine for his herb bundles when it becomes apparent he has company. 

“You seem to be in your natural element.” 

Quentin’s serenity evaporates as he turns to the sound of his lover’s voice.

Eliot is draped elegantly over the rough hewn bench at the edge of the garden, his elbows on the table behind and his long legs stretching out onto the grass. He’s dressed simply—for him—his plain white silk shirt open near to his navel and tucked into fawn leather pants. The breeze from the sea sets his curls to life, and brings a becoming color to his cheek. 

He’s beautiful. A day ago Quentin would have taken his sprawl for an invitation. He would make himself at home in Eliot’s lap and they would kiss until duty called them or hands wandered enough that kissing was too little to satisfy their desires. 

But is he still welcome in Eliot’s affections? Is he allowed, here on this secret sliver of land where Eliot calls himself father and husband? The gnawing dark of Quentin’s mind kept him awake last night, questioning everything. Perhaps this whole episode has been Eliot’s way of telling him their affair—a term Quentin had only thought to use in jest until today, something _romantic,_ as though he lived in one of the novels that told Eliot’s exploits—has run its course. 

“I _am_ a naturalist,” he replies at last. “Life can surprise us, but plants, at least, rarely do so in an unpleasant manner.” 

“I’d imagine they wouldn’t.” Eliot reaches for a mug of beer he’s brought out with him from the tavern. The sounds of the busy breakfast trade inside are whisked away by the crashing of the waves at the base of the cliff below them.

“It’s barely ten,” Quentin points out without any real heat in his voice as Eliot sips idly. It’s not as if the men don’t drink grog all hours of the day at sea.

“I’m on _land,_ Mr. Coldwater. I have to be slightly inebriated at all times or I’ll lose my sea legs.”

Quentin raises his eyebrows, and Eliot seems to realize his usually endearing sense of humor isn’t particularly welcome this morning. He sighs, and pushes a little parcel wrapped in white cloth towards the empty half of the table. 

“Will you not sit with me?” he asks, flipping back the napkin to reveal a baked pastry, still steaming warm. “Fen told me you never came to breakfast.” 

Quentin would deny him, just to make a point, but at that moment his stomach gurgles audibly, and he admits the small defeat. He ties his hair back as he joins Eliot at the table and accepts the peace offering, if that’s what this is. The hand pie at least, is delicious, but it does little to ease the tension between them. Eliot lets him eat, gazing out at the horizon while Quentin fidgets, but eventually he sighs.

“I can sense that anxious little gerbil running circles in your brain, Q,” Eliot says, taking a deep draught from his tankard. 

Quentin sets down the remaining half of his apple tartlet. “And whose doing is that?” 

Eliot is quiet for a moment. Then: 

“Fray isn’t mine. Not in the way I’ve let things seem. It’s—” He grimaces a bit. “Fen had my ear last night, for making theater of them. And you.”

What is Quentin to make of that? “Oh.”

“I have not, nor will I ever beget any children,” Eliot continues, aloof and airy again. “Because I don’t fuck women, Quentin. In case I haven’t managed to make that exceedingly obvious in our time together.” 

Again, with the jokes. Things are not so dire as Quentin feared, but he isn’t about to be laughed at, even by Eliot. 

“I was under that impression right up until you introduced me to your _wife_.”

Eliot winces as he mulls that over, following another sip of beer. 

“...you raise a fair point,” he admits.

“Help me understand,” Quentin says, entreating. “If you only favor men—as I thought, then why—and does Fen know—“

Eliot raises his eyebrows, but guesses at once at Quentin’s fear.

“You aren’t an interloper here, Q.” he says. “Fen knows me as I am, and I, her.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “We ask no private duties of one another.”

Quentin frowns, absorbing this. “So you’ve never—”

“That’s between she and I,” Eliot says, a bit sharp, though he relents. “But no, not as such. It’s not an expectation. It never has been.”

“And yet you call her wife,” Quentin replies. “And Fray your daughter. Why?”

“Because five years ago, I wanted to be king,” Eliot says, voice level. “And Fen wanted to be the Lady of King's Cottage.”

Quentin waits for Eliot to continue, and he laughs. 

“You’re less easily enthralled by a story than Fray.” 

Quentin rolls his eyes, impatient. “I’m sure your daughter and I are unalike in many ways. Tell me why you’re married to a woman, and why this is the first I’m hearing of it.” 

“To the second question: because I’m a fool. To the first: my crown is Fen’s by blood,” Eliot explains. “I earned it by marriage. Her father was High King before me.” 

“You’re not the first?” The idea of anyone else bearing the mantle of High King seems ludicrous. Eliot smiles at that. 

“I’m the subject of most of the songs,” he says, a swashbuckling glint in his eye. “And the racier novels. But no, I was preceded by an able pirate. At least that’s what Dint Bladesmith was, once. By the time I knew him he was a drunk looking to secure his legacy before his liver killed him.”

Quentin glances at Eliot’s beer as he says this, and Eliot shrugs. 

“Anyway, for a while he was a true king, almost too successful. With his death looming there was panic to find a successor, lest his vassals fall to infighting and draw the Navy down on the whole damned lot of us.” 

“But he had children,” Quentin points out. 

“A worthless son,” Eliot agrees, his expression turning sour. “Following all of his father’s worst habits. And a daughter well suited to rule but not to piracy. Fen chose a life on land early.” 

Quentin thinks of Fen here in her garden, or in her home with its solid stone foundations, and thinks that as little as he knows of her thus far it seems fitting. As fitting as Eliot on the rolling deck of a ship, his easy grace like a dance with the rhythm of the sea.

“I’d won my ship and was making a name for myself,” Eliot continues. “I was getting bold, and maybe a year away from challenging the old king for the title anyway when Fen came to me with an arrangement in mind. I counted her as a friend, enough to hear her out, and she spoke wisely.” 

“I still don’t see why—”

“She also happened to be nearly five months pregnant at the time.” Eliot adds, voice light. “So there were mutual benefits to be negotiated.” 

Quentin raised his eyebrows, some unknown pieces fitting into place. “Ah.” 

“We married, and the crown passed without bloodshed. Dint claimed me, and I claimed Fray. All parties were well satisfied.”

“So Fray’s father—“

“ _I’m_ Fray’s father.” 

Eliot’s tone brooks no debate, nor would Quentin offer it.

“There’s never been anyone else,” he says. “Not that Fen wanted to be a part of their lives. And as rarely as I can be here...I’m all that Fray has ever known.” 

Eliot presses at his eyes with the heel of his hand. 

“I provide for them both as best I can. When something happens to me—“ Quentin frowns over that too certain _when_ but let’s it pass “—the crew knows where to send my share.”

“Pirates are reliable when it comes to inheritance law, then?”

Eliot smiles, droll as he drops his hands.

“It’s an honor system.”

The silence hangs in the air after that, Quentin reducing the remains of his breakfast to nervous crumbs. The sea breeze pulls through the spindly flowers and herbs around them, and it’s so _strange_ to see Eliot here, with the smell of earth in his nose and green all around. Almost as strange as it was to see him fit his arm around a woman’s waist and hold a baby on his hip.

“Well then,” Quentin says, tracing his thumb over a knot marring the surface of the rough hewn table. “I suppose that’s all of my questions answered."

Eliot eyes him warily. “Is it?”

“Indeed.” 

Eliot plays his fingers about the rim of his mug. “I thought—I mean I expected you would be more upset.”

His lover’s words crack Quentin’s composure like a cold breeze on hot glass. 

“Of course I’m upset,” Quentin says, voice low, “You lied to me, Eliot.” 

“I never lied.” He sounds so certain. It’s deeply infuriating.

“You lied by omission,” Quentin says. “And that isn’t even what hurts me. You hid a part of yourself—which, fine. You’re a king, and who am I to you, to demand all your secrets?”

The agitation builds in his limbs until Quentin has to stand. He swings his legs over the bench they share and settles his bare feet on the flat stone path beneath them.

“But you have this massive _, beautiful_ part of your life which you hid from me,” he repeats, “And the time has come, apparently you’ve decided I’m not a danger to your family—” 

Eliot sets his tankard down. 

“Christ, Q, of course you aren’t.” 

“You brought me here with no forewarning,” Quentin continues with a bitter laugh, ignoring him. “No clue at all, because you wanted to see what my reaction would be.” 

Eliot looks away. His fist is curled over the edge of the table, but the gesture is one of shame, not of anger. Quentin’s words have struck true, and it only makes him more _frustrated_. 

“I would have been happy for you to share this with me, El,” he says, “And instead it’s another of your tests.”

“It wasn’t a test—”

“Of course it was a test!” Quentin bursts out, “What has my time with you been, except a never ending series of tests?”

He counts them off on his fingers, pacing before his lover. 

“Will I join your crew? Will I prove myself worthy as a surgeon? Will I succumb to my mental weaknesses?”

Eliot’s brow furrows. “Q—”

“Will I be loyal,” Quentin continues, “When given your _blessing_ to turn my back at the first sign of danger?”

Quentin pauses for breath, aware that his voice has risen to a near shout. 

“And now this,” he says, softer. 

In his passions, a few strands of his hair have fallen loose from the knot at the back of his neck, and Quentin pushes them out of his face with a heavy hand.

“What is it you wanted, bringing me here?” he asks, meeting Eliot’s gaze, “How do I pass this test?”

As he expected, Eliot has no answer for him. He looks away, but not before something old and hurt clouds his eyes, and Quentin can guess as to its source. With the earth solid under their feet Quentin leans in and cups Eliot’s jaw in his palm.

“Fray may not be your blood, but she’s your child, and you love her,” Quentin says. “You’re a _father_ , Eliot. That’s a beautiful thing. Anyone who would be unhappy to learn that about you isn’t worth your time.”

Quentin leans down to press a brief kiss to Eliot’s mouth. When he pulls away, he could swear Eliot’s eyes are wet. 

“I have to go and see Fen about some twine,” he says, soft. He kisses Eliot once more and walks away, feeling strangely at peace despite the hurt.

“Don’t fall in love with the version of me you know here, Q,” Eliot calls after him after a beat, pleading in his voice. “With the changing of the tides he’ll be gone, and you’ll share a killer’s bed as you did before.” 

“If you recall, we’re both killers now,” Quentin replies without turning back. “And if I’ve seen fit to fall in love—“ He swallows, the weight of that sacred word heavy on his tongue. “Then it’s been my prerogative to do so.” 

“Q—” In his weakness, Quentin looks over his shoulder, and finds Eliot on his feet. For once his expression is wide open, and he looks—god— hopeful. But Quentin watches as he schools his features into something kingly. 

“There’s going to be a party, tonight,” he says. “Food, drink, revels. It’s traditional for our homecoming. ...I expect every member of my crew to make an appearance.”

“You expect many things. We’ll see, if I’m not too busy with my duties.” 

Quentin goes before Eliot has the chance to reply. He already knows full well he’ll be at whatever raucous gathering celebrates a pirate king’s return to land. When has he ever been able to disobey Eliot Waugh? 

Inside, the Cottage is doing a bustling trade despite the early hour, dealing in hot midday meals as well as drinks. Fen is behind the bar, directing a gaggle of serving maids, and Quentin leans against the heavy polished oak and waits his turn for his attention. 

“Who’s this then?” A gruff voice catches his attention, and Quentin turns to find Avery and Baudry sharing a pitcher of ale at a table with an older black man wearing a faded Navy captain’s jacket, dark glasses, and a frothing white cravat ten years out of style. Aside from their obvious differences he dressed like a much more conservative version of Eliot. 

“I know the step of a stranger when I hear it,” the sailor—for he couldn’t possibly be anything else—declares. “Who do you sail with?”

“Easy on, Fogg, he’s one of ours,” Avery says, a bit of foam still on his lip from his mug. “The doctor’s been keeping most of us alive these last couple months.” 

A winning endorsement if Quentin ever heard one, but he knows by now Avery means it with fondness despite his less than poetic turns of phrase. With Fen still working at the kegs behind the bar Quentin steps closer to their table to share a word with his fellow crewman and be properly introduced to this Fogg character.

“Henry Fogg, retired vassal to the High King and general bastard,” he says with a firm handshake. “And you sound like the answer to Eliot Waugh’s prayers.” 

“I—um—” Quentin is grateful that Fogg is blind, so he can’t see the way he’s blushing, though he isn’t spared Avery and Baudry’s guffaws. The retired pirate raises his eyebrows at the sound. 

“Well that’s more than I care to hear implied about my king’s bed,” he grumbles before speaking to Quentin again. “I meant your trade. The _Whitespire’s_ been looking for a doctor for nigh on a year now. Where’d you do your schooling?” 

“Sounds like midwifery,” Fogg declares when Quentin explains his medical specialty at university. Before Quentin can open his mouth to defend his field—and the medical knowledge of midwives— Fogg laughs, loud and booming. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, boy. Wives’ cures are the best medicine there is.” 

The old pirate raps on his knee with his knuckles, revealing the hollow sound of wood.

“Any sailor who’s been on the wrong end of a surgeon’s saw could tell you that.”

“Have a drink with us, doctor?” Baudry asks, raising his tankard. “We were just having a toast to old Matthews.” 

“ _We’re_ toasting,” Fogg interjects, gesturing to himself and Avery. “Baudry’s here to moon after young Eleanor tending the oven.” 

“You knew Matthews?” Quentin asks Fogg as Avery teases a red-faced Baudry.

“He was on my crew, before I put down my cutlass for a life of leisure,” Fogg replies, his face turning solemn. “Time was we’d share a beer or two when he came in with the _Whitespire_ , but that’s the way of these things.”

Quentin has had months now to deal with the old sailor’s passing; he’d forgotten that it would be fresh news here, and that Matthews must have had friends like Fogg, if not a family of his own. 

“I’m sorry,” he says with a pang. “For your loss. And that I couldn’t save him.”

“We could all only hope to die at sea,” Fogg says as he waves off Quentin’s condolences. “And saving the life of one of the last free kings while we’re at it.” He grins, sardonic. “Matthews was a goddamned dramatic bastard. It’s how he would have wanted to go.”

That’s...strangely comforting, and Quentin thinks maybe he does have time for a drink with the old captain, when Fen finally finds him, calling “Quentin? Do you need something?” 

“Ah—yes, just a second—” Quentin turns back to the table. “Thank you,” he says. “But I’ve got supplies to replenish, and I’m still hoping to explore the woods a bit before the gathering tonight. Have you ever spotted any willow groves around the edge of the village?” 

“Get your boys to help the good doctor with his foraging,” Fogg says, sounding like a captain as he nudges Avery with his elbow. “They spend enough hours getting up to trouble in the backwoods, the little rascals.” 

Quentin gets to ask Fen for some string while Fogg shoos Avery off to gather his sons and Baudry begins to loiter at the far end of the bar, gathering his nerve to talk to the cook’s helper by the looks of it. With a spool of butcher’s twine in hand Quentin means to get back to his work in the garden, but Fogg catches him by the sleeve on his way out.

“If you’re as close to the High King as the men tell me,” he says, his voice at a low growl. “Then keep a mind to his back.”

“I—why? Isn’t he safe here?” 

“As safe as men like us can ever be, but a certain piece of trouble rolled back into town a few days ago, and bringing a thundercloud with him,” Fogg warns. “It’s a family matter. Just keep an eye.” 

Quentin doesn’t have any idea what Fogg is talking about, but he recalls the bitter twist of Eliot’s expression when he mentioned his wife’s half-brother. That seemed to speak more to private drama than danger, but many parts of Eliot’s life remained a mystery to him. 

“I will,” he promises Fogg. He’s been successful at keeping the High King alive so far, and he doesn’t intend to quit anytime soon.

“Then that’s all we can do,” Fogg says, amiable again as he releases Quentin’s arm. “Now back to flower picking with you.”

Quentin returns to the sunny garden and his duties, soon joined by Avery’s rambunctious son’s— all eager to find him willow bark in return for a few copper coins— but the skim of a dark cloud haunts his thoughts for the rest of the afternoon. 

Even here at his home and hearth, there was no true safe haven for a pirate king.

* * *

It’s been a busy morning in King’s Cottage. There’s requisitioning to do, and old bills to settle now that the _Whitespire_ has a few months of good raids in her coffers. Eliot and Fray have already been to the blacksmith and the tailor, and now they’re practicing their singing as they make their way along the low stone wall that leads the way to the general shop. 

_[“Safe and sound at home again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wY1fUAPYH3M),” _ Eliot sings, and Fray joins him on _“Let the waters roar, Jack.”_

Pirates are a musical bunch, and what Fray lacks in technique she makes up for in enthusiasm.

 _“Safe and sound at home again, let the waters roar, Jack._ ”

Eliot scoops his daughter up as they reach the chorus, waving hello to a few of his subjects as they cross their yards. He throws his voice, unashamed. The sight and sound of him here at home is as reassuring to his people as a bag of gold. Fen has taught him that over the years, wise as she is.

“ _Long we've tossed on the rolling main, now we're safe ashore, Jack!_

 _Don't forget your old shipmate—_ ”

“ _Faldee raldee raldee raldee rye-eye-doe!”_ Fray concludes in her high child’s voice. 

“Look at you, not a note out of place,” Eliot declares, swinging Fray up onto the low stone wall as she giggles. “Has your mother been teaching you pirate shanties instead of lessons?” 

“Captain Henry taught me that one,” Fray informs him, walking along the wall like a tightrope with the help of Eliot’s long arms for balance. She smiles up at him, and Eliot’s heart twinges. Fray is still innocently in love with all things pirate, her heart full of adventure. “Next he says he’ll teach me how to tie knots, and then how to spit!”

Eliot barks out a laugh at that _._ Fen will be _thrilled_. 

“Papa, are we gonna sing more songs at the party tonight?” 

“We certainly will, sweetling. I imagine there’ll be dancing as well.” 

“Yes! Mama says I can wear my new dress. It’s blue, like the sea, and that’s my favorite color.” 

Eliot’s heard about this dress. Fen has been trying to keep it out of mud puddles for months. “You’ll be the belle of the ball, for sure.”

“Will Aunt Margo come to the bonfire?” 

“No, she has to be Queen tonight, remember? She’s protecting the ship while the men see their families. But she’ll switch with Todd after he sees his mother, and she’s told me she has special presents for the Princess of King’s Cottage.” 

“Alright.” Fray skips a little with anticipation. Margo was a favorite of hers, and rightly so, as Eliot’s queen knew the way to a girl’s heart: exotic and usually dangerous gifts. Perhaps a five year old didn’t have need of a crystal handled dagger, or a locket with a secret compartment for poison, but Fen had little objection, so long as Margo taught Fray how to use them properly. Eliot’s father-in-law, after all, was a knifemaker before he was a pirate. 

“What about Doctor Quentin?” 

“Hm?” Eliot asks, lifting his daughter high into the air as she leapt off the wall and back to the dirt path. “What’s that, darling?”

“Doctor Quentin,” Fray repeats as she takes Eliot’s hand. “He’s pretty, and he likes flowers! And he’s part of your crew, so he has to come.”

“I think he’s pretty too,” Eliot agrees, an unruly flutter in his belly at the thought of Quentin. They’d left things in an uncertain place this morning, but Eliot could only hope—“And I invited him.” 

“Then he’ll be there,” Fray declares confidently. 

“You sound very sure,” Eliot says, looking down on his daughter fondly. She stopped on the side of the path to pick up a pretty stone and put it in the pocket of her green calico dress. 

“You’re the boss of him,” she says, once they’re moving again. “And also Missus Phillips is making cakes, so it will be a great party and he’ll be sad if he misses out.”

“Indeed he will.” 

The pair swings their hands between them as they approach the dry goods store. Fen is the true overseer of the black market goods that flow from the _Whitespire’_ s hold out to the Crown’s territories, but it's one thing to offload stolen silk and gold and another to stock a secret town with simple flour, sugar, and the other necessities that mark a spot of civilization from a shanty town. Jeremy Marks proved talented at the dangerous work, and his widow more so after he’d been lost five summers ago to a fever, of all things. 

The three Marks girls—the oldest nearing marrying age and the youngest not yet ten—are out in the front garden, weaving chains of flowers between them. The pretty garlands would likely be strung up around the bonfire later, but the girls have found their fun as well, weaving daisies and windflowers into their braids. 

“Your Majesty, welcome home!” They call to him as he approaches. They offer smiles and friendly waves to Fray, who looks on at the older girls with worshipful fascination. 

“Thank you, ladies. It’s good to be home,” Eliot says, leaning on the simple post fence that marks off the family store and plot. “Is your mother in? I wanted to settle some accounts for the Cottage.” 

“She is, my king. Should I fetch her?” asks the oldest.

“Don’t go to trouble. I can knock as well as any other.” 

Eliot leaves Fray in the yard with the girls for a few minutes while he’s plied with cake— a bit of whiskey—by Widow Marks. The shopkeeper is still tough as nails and a thrill to bargain with. He hears more of what he knew from Fen: the trade lines are stable but sugar might be hard to come by for a few months after some storms to the South. Did he hear that Mrs. Shiraz’s honey hives are doing well? A few men and some coins put her way might keep their cakes sweet through the year and save them in the long run. Speaking of sweet things, how is his wife? Might she be needing anything to brighten things up at the top of the hill? 

Eliot steps back out into the sunshine with a lighter coinpurse than he’d entered with and a new kettle for the stove in Fen’s quarters at the Cottage. It’s a bit more than just what he owed Mrs. Marks for keeping the larder stocked at the Cottage, but the kettle is a lovely thing of painted enamel and copper and Fen rarely treats herself in such ways. 

As Eliot understands it, spoiling one’s wife is a husband’s prerogative. 

_And if I’ve seen fit to fall in love, then it’s been my_ prerogative _to do so—_

God, will every turn of phrase that flits through his mind today remind him of Quentin? 

“Papa!” 

Eliot shakes Quentin’s words—beautiful, stubborn words that have been racing around his thoughts the whole afternoon—out of his head. In the yard Fray has been hard at work, the Marks girls helping her make her own flower crown. 

“We made one for you,” she says proudly, holding up a ring of daisies that’s only a bit uneven. 

Other kings might care more for their dignity than their daughter’s happiness, but Eliot isn’t one of them. With great ceremony he kneels, and lets Fray bestow her gift on him. 

“High King Eliot Waugh,” she intones, settling the daisies in his curls. “Lord of the Western Seas!” 

“A better crown I’ve never worn,” Eliot declares, before slinging Fray into his arms, much to her delight. “Thank you, princess.” 

Fray winds her arms around his neck and delivers a sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Love you, Your Majesty,” she says. 

Eliot returns the kiss to her ash blonde curls, the sweet perfume of summer blossoms at his nose. 

“And I love you, little one.” 

There would come a day when Eliot’s three yearly visits and lavish presents wouldn’t be enough. Fray would grow, and see not her Papa, but a flawed man with blood on his hands and nothing but gold to offer her. 

But today—thank God—was not that day.

“Let’s go home and see Mama for lunch, hm?” 

“Yes!”

Newly crowned and his parcel under his arm, Eliot walks hand in hand with Fray back up the sloping path towards the cottage. They’re making a pleasant passage when Eliot hears the tail-end of a coarse exchange. 

“Let me hear such poison from our tongue again and you’ll feel the sharp end of my sword. I don’t care whose bastard you are—“

Eliot frowns, keeping Fray close at his side as they round the corner near the top of the cliffs. His quartermaster is no danger to them, but it takes a lot to get Todd so riled up as to make a scene. Who could possibly—

Ah. Of course. 

“Baylor,” Eliot says, hand on his hip as he takes in the scene before him. Todd has his wayward brother-in-law practically by the scruff of the neck, and Baylor going red and looking ready to throw a punch. His red shirt looks like silk, expensive once but made cheap by stained cuffs and a cigarette burn at the collar. A typical waste of coin. He’d have been better off to have saved it for shave. He’s in need enough of one now. 

“It’s been a while,” Eliot concludes, drawing himself up to king height. 

Todd releases Baylor at once, looking to Fray with concern. “My king, excuse me. We were just...having a discussion.”

“Indeed,” Eliot agrees, raising an eyebrow. “All is well, I hope?”

“Everything is _fine_ —” Baylor begins with a glare at Todd, who doesn’t budge an inch.

“I’ve made my position _clear_ , Captain.” 

“If you say so.” Eliot hardly has to guess at what mutiny Baylor was trying to sow— _again_ , which just makes Eliot feel incredibly tired—but he picked the wrong crewman if he thought he would sway Todd. “Fen said you were back in town, Baylor, and after so long away. No warrants on your tail, I hope?” 

Baylor straightened the collar of his shirt with one last glower at Todd. 

“No more than you, I’d imagine,” he says, and, well, Eliot can hardly argue with that. Instead he addresses Fray. 

“Do you want to say hello to your uncle, sweetling?” 

Unsurprisingly, Fray shakes her head, shrinking behind his legs. Eliot’s a fool in many ways, but he’s wise enough to trust the instincts of a child. Still, he offers her a smile and keeps wearing it when he turns back to a displeased Baylor.

“Don’t take it to heart. She’s shy around strangers.” 

Eliot shouldn’t goad him, but it’s worth it to see Bayor’s lips twist into a scowl.

“And whose doing is that, Waugh?”

Todd reacts before Eliot can, his grip ready on the pommel of the cutlass at his waist. “That’s _Captain_ Waugh, or Your Majesty, you seditious—“

“It’s alright, Todd,” Eliot interjects, before Baylor can reply with a level of defiance that Eliot won’t be able to ignore. “This is just talk between family.”

Baylor’s expression is thunderous, but Eliot continues before he can speak.

“Baylor knows well the difference between such private conversations and public insubordination in front of my crew, which might be mistaken for a challenge,” Eliot says lightly, his hand easy on Fray’s shoulder where she clings to his legs. “Don’t you, _brother_.” 

Baylor half grins, a bitter thing, and it’s anything but reassuring. “Of course.” 

Todd glances between them, but takes his hand from his sword. 

“As you say, Majesty.” 

“Since all is well, I’ll be going,” Eliot says, not phrasing it as a question. “We’re late for lunch, and this little one is going to need a nap soon if she’s going to be in fighting shape for the bonfire tonight.” 

“I’m not tired, Papa!” Fray insists, forgetting her shyness with the threat of a nap. 

“I’m sure you aren’t,” Eliot agrees. “But we’ll see how things stand in a half hour.” 

That gets a chuckle from Todd, as least, but Baylor is still staring malevolently at Eliot. 

Wonderful. He didn’t have enough troubles of his own making, Fate has to drop another in his lap. 

Eliot not too subtly guides Fray to walk in front of him as they pass. Even with Todd present he doesn’t care to leave either of their backs unguarded while Baylor is near, but far better that he take a knife than Fray. 

A practical thought worms its way past his piratical paranoia, and Eliot turns back. 

“Todd.” 

“My king?” 

“Wrangle a few men up to the Cottage before sundown. Fen will need help getting kegs down the hill, and wood cut for the bonfire. There’ll be supper in it for you.” 

“Aye, Captain.”

Eliot eyes Baylor. He’s still all spark and powder, but with a calculating edge that’s new since his shadow last darkened their doorstep. He thinks that this man might have been High King and knows he and Fen made the right decision. 

“You’re more than welcome to lend a hand as well,” he says, his reluctance obvious. “And stay for a meal. Unless other business occupies you.”

Baylor crosses his arms. “I’m afraid it does.” 

Well, that’s that. The benevolent ring offered, etcetera etcetera. Eliot takes Fray by the hand again, and they leave such troubles behind in favor of lunch. Despite her protests all it takes after their busy morning is a cup of hearty fish chowder and a crust of bread before Fray is falling asleep at her barstool. Eliot lets her doze in his lap for a few minutes while catches up with some of the old sailors who make the tables of the Cottage their daytime occupation—half the village used to be Old Fogg’s crew, he does well to let Henry have his ear now and then—but then he carries her to her little room off of his and Fen’s quarters. 

“‘M not sleepy,” she grumbles, half woken up by Eliot’s jostling as he tucks her under a patchwork quilt. Eliot kisses the grumpy little furrow in her brow that reminds him dearly of Fen when customers get pushy. 

“Rest for a while, dearheart,” he says. “When you wake up it’ll be time to wear your new dress and make merry.”

With another kiss and a hummed little tune of a lullabye, she’s asleep again. 

The room is quiet, the noise of the tavern muffled through the stucco walls, and the watery afternoon sunshine filters in through the bubbles glass window across from Fray’s little bed. The window looks out on Fen’s garden, and if Eliot stands a little to the side he can see Q, still hard at work. 

Shaughnessy is with him now taking a hammer to some old crates, and at least three of his little sisters—all equally red headed—flocked around Q while he demonstrates how to tie one of his magical herb bundles. 

He’s so lovely, here among green and growing things. Almost as lovely as he is on the deck of Eliot’s ship, or wrapped in the velvet covers of Eliot’s bed. The sleeves of his light blue shirt are rolled to his elbows, his arms fine and strong and his skin gone warm from time in the sun. 

He’s nothing like the pale shadow Eliot stole away from the _Ellsworth_ . The sea—the _Whitespire, Eliot—_ has done him good. 

But how much more can Eliot ask of him? He sighs. Quentin’s heart is too giving, and Eliot too greedy.

“You sound like a maid with her husband off at sea.” 

“I’m a pirate on land,” Eliot replies, keeping his voice low as Fen steps into the room so as to not wake Fray. “I think I’m entitled to a bit of ennui.”

Fen hums. She tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow and leans her head on his upper arm. He forgets, forceful as she is in his mind—much like his Bambi—that he’s nearly a foot taller than his wife.

“The sea is a jealous lover,” she says, eyes twinkling. “You might be more cautious taking her name while you're mooning over another.”

What can Eliot say to that besides rap his knuckles lightly on the wooden windowsill to ward off ill fortune? It’s as good as an admission, but Fen doesn’t press him on it just yet.

“I like this crown,” she says, and Eliot touches above his ears to realize he’s still wearing the circlet of daisies Fray made for him. That drags a laugh out of him. 

“You know, I talked business with half the tavern wearing it?” He says. “I scolded Baylor in it as well. I’m surprised he didn’t make comment.” 

“He wouldn’t understand the worth of such things.” Fen straightens the flowers to drape more steadily over his brow. “It’s a fitting crown for a free king. One who’s loved, not feared.” 

“I’m feared across the Four Seas,” Eliot says, only half joking. “Or haven’t you heard the songs?” 

Fen cups his cheek with the palm of her hand. 

“You spoke to Quentin. What did he say?”

Eliot swallows. 

“That he loves me.”

That had been the truth of it, hadn’t it? Whatever they talked around. Eliot had done all but betray him, and still Quentin had kissed him on the mouth and spoken of giving his heart away.

He can feel Fen’s smile. “And you love him. That’s a precious thing, Eliot.”

“It can’t be so simple as that,” he replies. Fen sighs.

“We live simple lives, El. Not easy, but simple. We have the sea, the earth, your sharp sword and a few cannons, and what love we can savor while it lasts.”

“The Crown, and the Navy, and two hundred subjects to keep from starving or the jailhouse,” Eliot continues. Fen just shrugs.

“Why do we struggle,” she asks. “If not for the precious, simple things?” 

A thousand arguments flicker through Eliot's thoughts, but as they watch Quentin go about his contented work out in the sunshine all he wants is to hold him, as long as he’ll be allowed.

“Come on, then,” Fen says, breaking the silence. “There will be time aplenty for romance. I need some crates down from the high cupboards, or we’ll never get all this food packed in time for the bonfire.” 

Eliot slings his long arm over his wife’s shoulders, and let her lead him to what needs doing. 

“Your stork husband is at your service, my lady.” 

* * *

[ “ _Oh, we'd be alright_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20n3N1uhztc) _if the wind was in our sails_

_We'd be alright if the wind was in our sails_

_We'd be alright if the wind was in our sails_

_And we'll all hang on behind…_ ”

The sun is well set and the stars twinkling overhead when Quentin finds himself drawn to the bonfires in the center of town like a moth to a flame. The singing had picked up more than an hour ago, and as he approaches the fete it looks like every subject old and young has come out to eat, drink, and welcome their king home. There’s tables full of food and massive kegs of beer, garlands of flowers strung around the main square and everyone dressed in their most colorful silk and chintz and calico to suit a pirate’s festival. Every seat available is taken and there are plenty standing besides, stomping their feet and clapping along to men’s singing. 

_“And we'll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!_

_We'll ro-o-oll the golden chariot along!_

_We'll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!_

_And we'll all hang on behind!”_

They’ve got musicians aplenty between the crew and their families—Quentin recognizes Nguyen on his fiddle, and Andrews with his peculiar highland drum among the cluster making up the band—but it’s the voices of the crew and the swirl of dancers around the bonfire that keep the song flowing. Quentin feels the rhythm as though it's in his very blood, pirates and sweethearts and shopkeepers alike moving to the music as sure as waves onto the shore. He sees Baudry, who it would seem found good luck with young Eleanor that morning, and Avery, managing on his weak ankles with his wife in his arms, and at least a dozen other men who Quentin never imagined as anything other than bodies on a ship all with lovers— men and women— or mothers, or children led through careful dancing steps.

_“Well a night on the town wouldn't do us any harm_

_A night on the town wouldn't do us any harm_

_Oh, a night on the town wouldn't do us any harm_

_And we'll all hang on behind…_

It's there, of course, in the middle of the dancers that Quentin finally spots Eliot, the lifeblood of the whole gathering. He’s dressed in gold and scarlet, his feet bare against the packed earth floor and a crown of daisies in his raven curls as he twirls Fen like he was born to it. 

He’s glorious, royal and fey and free with his arm about his wife’s waist and a flush on his cheeks that only comes with a few strong drinks. They step together with ease, Fen’s cheeks blushing just as pretty as the soft green dress she’s wearing and both of them turned gold in the flicker and flame of the firelight. 

Eliot doesn’t see him, and Quentin finds himself a drink and hovers near the food table to soak him in. As much as he longs to touch Eliot again, hold him and be kissed, it’s its own pleasure to see him like this, a king among his people. 

_“And we'll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!_

_We'll ro-o-oll the golden chariot along!_

_We'll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!_

_And we'll all hang on behind!”_

“Another drink or two!” Eliot calls out, and the men follow his lead into the next verse as easy as they follow him into battle. 

_“Now, another drink or two wouldn't do us any harm_

_Oh, another drink or two wouldn't do us any harm_

_Woah, another drink or two wouldn't do us any harm_

_And we'll all hang on behind…”_

Quentin watches as Fen tugs Eliot’s ear to her lips, whispering something with a mischievous look. Eliot’s answering grin is free and wide, and looks over to where young Baudry is dancing with the kitchen maid from the Cottage earlier. With his arm slung around his wife’s waist he waits for the chorus to wind down before calling again: “A kiss from Eleanor!” 

The old grannies cheer and hoot as bawdy as the sailors but they all pick up the verse as Baudry turns bright red and his sweetheart giggles in his arms.

“ _A kiss from Eleanor wouldn’t do us any harm_

_Oh, a kiss from Eleanor wouldn’t do us any harm,_

_Woah, a kiss from Eleanor wouldn’t do us any harm,_

_And we’ll all hang on behind.”_

Quentin joins in the applause as the final chorus concludes with a mighty ruckus and the Eleanor in question gifts Baudry a quick peck on the cheek, to the delight of the rest of the revelers. He watches as Eliot claps his crewman heartily on the back and bows over Eleanor’s hand in apology for his mischief, but neither party seems too put off. 

A drink has just been pushed into Quentin’s hand when Eliot spots him, calling out: 

“Quentin!”

Eliot kisses his wife in thanks for their dance, and then the crowds parts for him with good natured hoots and hollers as Eliot plants another kiss, this time on Quentin’s cheek. 

Quentin blushes, but when Eliot pulls away he sees the hesitation in the High King’s expression, like his mind has just caught up to the habit of his body after a few drinks. 

“You came,” he says, hope plain in his words. 

“Of course I did,” Quentin sighs, a helpless smile at his lips. “My king—” 

Eliot’s brows flick up in pleased surprise, when another voice takes their attention back to the gang of musicians.

“Ladies and rogues, we’ve had a request from the Ladies of King’s Cottage!” Andrews calls to the crowd. Indeed, Fen is standing nearby, now with Fray in her arms. Both look equally mischievous as the sailors and their families cheer for Eliot’s wife and daughter. 

“It’s been brought to our attention that the newest member of our crew is here,” Andrews continues, and Quentin waves with bashful good cheer as he receives his own round hoots and thunderous clapping. “And that our good doctor has never heard the Ballad of the High King!” 

The ruckus that summons is mighty, indeed.

“Oh, dear lord,” Eliot mutters, but he’s still grinning as he tucks Quentin under his arm and calls back, “You’d better clean up a few of those verses, Andrews! There are babes present.” 

“Babes who hear the conquests of the High King for their lullabies!” call one of the women holding court near the beer kegs, which earns more bawdy cheers. 

Nguyen starts up his fiddle again, and the anticipation crackles in the air until Andrew’s coarse brogue leads the revelers into the first verse.

[ _Have you heard of the king_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9kRO5BqCGs) _, who sits on no throne,_

_To the Crown and the Navy he’s very well known,_

_Still down to the alehouse he’s frequently goin'_

_With Johnny and Billy, and Terry._

_The law would rebuke him for being such a rake,_

_He steals from the rich for his whiskey and cakes,_

_But his lassies are sweet, and it's all for their sakes,_

_And it keeps him lighthearted and merry._

The whole crowd old and young joins in on the chorus, and Quentin thinks the joyful swell of sound must reach all the way to the Capitol.

_“He’ll eat when he’s hungry, he’ll drink when he’s dry._

_He’ll court all the lads or at least he will try,_

_And he’ll never conform 'til the day that he dies,_

_The Whitespire’s captain sails free.”_

God, it’s wonderful. All of these people love Eliot for exactly who he is. He’s their king, and a husband and father. He’s a lover of men and a bit of a louche and every man here would die for him.

Quentin looks up at him—he always wants to be looking, to be closed, even for just a day he’d _missed him_ — and Eliot is already looking back. 

“Q.” 

The High King offers Quentin his open hands, his smile wide and the desire untethered in his gaze.

“Dance with me. Please.” 

Quentin takes his hand, and lets him pull him close with an arm around his waist. It’s near the closest he’s been to Eliot since they set foot on dry land. 

“I don’t dance often,” he warns his lover, a bit breathless. “Especially not from this side of it.” 

“We’re pirates, doctor,” Eliot replies, lips curled in mirth. “As in all things we dance for pleasure, not skill.”

And then they’re off in their own little spiral of quick steps and shared breath and the swelling sound of Eliot’s own legend in their ears. 

_“To quarrel for riches he ne'er was inclined,_

_But with sword point and cannon he’ll claim goods in kind,_

_Still the boys say his kisses are freely supplied,_

_A King to whom no man must bow._

_For the Crown never spends any gold of their own,_

_Sure they hold it away like a dog and its bone,_

_But they’ll end on their back among nettles and stones,_

_And I hear there's no pockets in shrouds._

_He’ll eat when he’s hungry, he’ll drink when he’s dry._

_He’ll court all the lads or at least he will try,_

_And he’ll never conform 'til the day that he dies,_

_The Whitespire’s captain sails free._

The lick of the bonfire against the cool night air is nothing to the heat of Eliot’s hands on him. Quentin left his coat at the top of the hill and he’s never been so glad to have come to a party underdressed, only thin cotton between them and his throat bare when Eliot dips his head to skim a kiss there as they spin. Quentin grips Eliot’s shoulder like a lifeline and follows him in this dance that’s beginning to feel like something more. 

They’re only two among a crowd dancing now, every voice lifted up to the familiar words. All the men here, they have friends, lovers, families. And Quentin is one of them. Deeper than blood, deeper than a marriage vow, this whole place is held together with Fen’s level head and Eliot’s sharp sword and his love for all things free and merry. 

The High King. Eliot Waugh. The Lord of King’s Cottage. However Eliot may see them in pieces; they're one man, and Quentin only wants to be here loving him in these moments forever.

Something of his need must show on his face, because Eliot’s lips part, and then he’s dragging Quentin out of the circle of dancers and off where there’s more shadow than light from the fires. Quentin’s last thought before they’re alone and he’s in Eliot’s arms is that he’d been foolish to worry that these men would measure him against their king’s marriage vow. Their exit is accompanied by hoots and catcalls, and the final verses of the song turn bawdy.

_Now some say he’s foolish and some say he’s wise,_

_For loving his men and his whiskey and wife._

_But the King in the West leaves no lover in strife,_

_Unlike his bouts with the Navy!_

_So he’ll call for the laddies and ask them to wed,_

_And they’ll all be content in the one marriage bed,_

_While the rich count their gold he’ll count kisses instead,_

_And never have fear for a baby._

_He’ll eat when he’s hungry, he’ll drink when he’s dry._

_He’ll court all the lads or at least he will try,_

_And he’ll never conform 'til the day that he dies,_

_The Whitespire’s captain sails free._

There’s a woodshed just beyond the firelight at the base of the hill and Quentin lets Eliot push him up against it and kiss him near senseless. The air is full of heat and smoke and Eliot’s spiced perfumes over good clean sweat. Quentin’s hand are fisted in the back of Eliot’s shirt as he gasps out of the kiss to demand and plead, “What do you want? My king, what do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me again, what you said this morning,” Eliot whispers hot in his ear, his thigh between his legs where they’re both half hard. “Tell me you spoke true. Tell me your heart is only mine. Tell me—” Eliot presses his nose to Quentin’s hair and breathes deeply. “—tell me I haven’t ruined everything, Q.” 

Quentin shudders and Eliot strokes his palm under his shirt, pressing firm against the sweat slick skin of his lower back. 

“You’re a fool,” he breathes in return, Eliot’s beard a rasp against his cheek. “You saved me from a sinking ship. You put a sword in my hand. You brought me back to life— _Eliot—”_

Quentin tugs their joined hands to press over his heart as Eliot presses their brows together, his eyes blown.

“What other man could claim me?” Quentin whispers against the High King’s lips. 

Eliot does claim him then. He takes his mouth with eager sweet kisses that turn filthy in a moment. Quentin is helpless but to cling to his lover and welcome the press of his tongue, giving in turn in a heated pantomime of what they could be doing should they find themselves somewhere more private than the side of a shack on the outskirts of a pirate’s ball.

“Come back to my bed,” Quentin pleads when they part. “I’ve—Christ, Eliot, I’ve missed you.” 

Eliot takes his hand and they steal away like thieves in the night back to the Cottage, the sounds of singing and dancing and carousing still nipping at their heels. 

Quentin slept last night in his single room, and it’s there that they make their bed together. They haven’t spoken a word yet and haven’t needed to, freeing each other from clothes and kissing like they’ve been starving for it. Eliot’s red vest with its fine gold knotwork is in a pile on the floor with Quentin’s boots and trousers, and his butter yellow shirt joins them in short order as he pushes Quentin back onto the bed. 

“Tell me you were jealous when you saw,” Eliot begs, voice gone high and wheedling as he straddles Quentin’s hips, pinning him to the straw tick mattress. “When you learned that I was wed.” 

“How could I be?” Quentin replies. “How can I own a king? I could sooner bottle the sea than be the only duty of your heart. Your family doesn’t change that. This _place_ doesn’t change that.” 

Eliot smothers a wounded sound in their kiss, because Quentin speaks the truth, whatever he wishes he could say. He can be Eliot’s alone, but Eliot will never be free to give the same of himself in return. 

“It’s alright,” Quentin promises when they part with slick mouths, his hands in Eliot’s ink black curls. “This is enough. This is all I ask.” 

“You should want more.” Eliot rocks down into his lap, pressing them together where they’re hot and hard. “I could give you more.”

“Then _give_ it to me.” 

There’s oil in the bedside table (“How often is this room used?” “Perchance my wife just knows me too well, doctor.”) and then Quentin watches in awe as Eliot makes them both bare and slicks himself with quick, steady fingers. He’s—they’ve never done this, not in the way Quentin knows Eliot laid with the Lorian king, but his cock throbs with want as Eliot pants and readies himself and then—all too soon, Quentin may well be on the edge of _madness_ — he lines them up and— 

Eliot throws his head back as he sinks down onto him and it’s the most beautiful thing Quentin has ever seen. 

Every inch of him is throbbing alive, his pulse pounding in his heart and his throat and his cock where it’s buried—oh god—so deep inside of Eliot Waugh. It’s everything in Quentin’s power to keep his hips still and let Eliot breathe through taking him, and everything more to bite back the words of love that bubble up and threaten to spill over. 

He’s said what’s in his heart already. Anything more might overflow the cup and leave them ruined with so many uncertainties still between them.

“Y—you’re beautiful,” he gasps instead, clutching at Eliot's thighs, “So handsome, so lovely, Eliot. Has anyone ever told you?”

A ghost of a smile teases at Eliot’s lips as he bears down on the length of Quentin’s cock— because of course he has, he’s the king of pirates and tavern boys alike— but that doesn’t keep the trembling sigh from escaping as he kneels up and then settles deep again. 

“I want to be looking at you, always,” Quentin continues, hushed and reverent and desperate, “I want to be touching you, _always_.” 

“Touch me now,” Eliot pleads, dragging Quentin’s hands until they press flat to his bare chest, “For the love of god, Q, touch me.” 

Eliot’s skin is all goosebumps as he rises and falls on Quentin’s cock, his nipples pebbled under Quentin’s fingers as he moans his pleasure into the night. 

Quentin has been so eager for Eliot—for his cock, his mouth, the long length of his body covering him and making him feel _so safe_ —that maybe he hasn’t realized that Eliot has been needing this. That there are vulnerable, masculine parts of him that want to be held and filled and _taken_ by another man as much as Quentin does. 

“It feels so good,” Quentin groans, his hands finding home on Eliot’s slim hips. “It feels so good in you, with you— _Eliot.”_

“My Q.” Eliot rocks down on him hard, taking him deep over and over. “My own. My heart—” 

“Yes, yes—” 

Quentin fits his hand to the thick, hard length of Eliot’s cock and he shudders, dipping down to kiss him as Quentin brings him quickly to the edge of spending.

"You make me think vicious, jealous thoughts,” Quentin confesses against Eliot’s lips, “You make me want beautiful, impossible things."

“Take what you want,” Eliot breathes in return, hot and urgent. “You only have to take me and I’m yours.”

It’s the truth, if only for tonight. 

“My king,” Quentin groans, and when he says again, low and rough, “ _My_ king,” Eliot comes. His spend paints Quentin’s belly white and he clenches hard on Quentin’s cock until he’s spilling himself with a cracked cry of pleasure. 

Eliot rides him until they’re both shuddering and sensitive, doing little more than clinging and breathing together. He slumps to the side, and Quentin lets out a weak little croak as his cock slips free of Eliot’s well loved hole. Eliot laughs weakly at that and gathers Quentin quietly into his arms. 

There are things yet unsettled between them but it’s enough for now to lay pressed together in the narrow bed and trade kisses while they wait for their breathing to calm. Quentin nuzzles into the fur on Eliot’s chest as is his habit and revels in the sweat and musk of it all. 

That a reunion is this sweet after two days apart doesn’t bode well for the safety of his heart, but Quentin has thrown himself fully into more anemic romances than this with far less caution. He plays his fingers over the freckles on Eliot’s belly and treasures the tremble of it as he laughs.

“You’re usually half asleep by now,” Eliot murmurs, eyebrows twitching up in that delicate queer way that he has when Quentin looks up. Like he’s laughing at him, but only out of fondness. 

“I’m not tired,” Quentin admits, his blood still thrumming with love and drink and _Eliot_. His lover’s hazel eyes are sparkling with delight, one of his dark curls hanging sweat damp over his brow. 

“No?”

Quentin shakes his head, a grin tugging at his lips. 

“I want to go back to the bonfire,” he confesses. “I want to drink, and dance, and see you be king to your people. I want us both to be a part of that.” 

Eliot laughs, and kisses him, and agrees. So they clean up as best they can and pull on wrinkled clothes and slip back down to the party still just beginning hand in hand. 

If it takes another chorus of teasing cheers and whoops for Quentin to realize he’d put on Eliot’s shirt in the dark instead of his own, it’s nothing that another drink and a turn around the bonfire in his lover’s arms can’t fix.

The _Whitespire’s_ homecoming lasts well into the early hours of the morning, the dark uncertainty of the night nothing in the face of drink and song and the fealty of free men given joyfully to the High King of the Western Seas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Also I hoped you clicked on the links to hear the tunes of the pirate songs I included. Eliot and fray are singing the classic "Don't forget yer Old shipmate". The first song at the bonfire dance is "Roll the Old Chariot" and the Ballad of the High King is my half-original lyrics to the "The Rake" with which I've included a link to the original as sung by the Irish Rovers so you can hear the tune. It was fun to take a typical drunk and carousing pub song and queer it up for our beloved High King. Thanks as always to all my readers and I hope to hear from you in the comments!


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